Chapter Eleven
The days flew by until the ball in a haze of dizzy daydreams and awfully boring classes. Finally the evening arrived and every girl in the school from the third year upwards scurried to
communal bathrooms so that they could size up each other's costumes and get dressed frantically.
Hermione inspected herself in the dormitory mirror, all alone. Her hair had been carefully crafted into a bun laced with little plaits, a pearl hairpiece used to fasten it. Two sausage-curl
ringlets of hair fell down on each side of her face. As an extra precaution for her identity (she didn't want Ron to know that she'd turned him down for someone else), Hermione had
found a charm that temporarily switched the hair colour of the user to it's exact opposite. She had tried it out beforehand, and when it proved successful had written a note to her
Writer to tell him what to look for. He had written back saying that he would be using the charm also. So at present, Hermione had silvery blonde hair that gleamed in the moonlight,
and somewhere else a boy was smoothing down his own strange new hair colour. She had been forced to sneak up to the common room with her hair tucked into a Gryffindor
beanie, but no one had paid her any attention anyway. As far as anyone was concerned, Hermione might as well have been a speck of dust, or a draught making its way through the
common room. Looking into the mirror, she found it quite unnerving to see such a drastic change to her appearance , but was very happy with the way she had managed to scrub
up. Not too shabby, she thought proudly as she twirled in the mirror. After making sure that everything was done up properly (it had taken the best part of twenty minutes to do up
the ribbon-laced corset at the back), and that her mask completely covered her face, she breezed out of the fat lady's portrait and down the staircase for her date with fate.
Malfoy was waiting in a corner of the hall, hidden by the shadowy half-lit candles. His mask was in place, covering his face until halfway down his cheeks. No one came near. Draco
was on edge, impatiently slicking back his silver-blonde hair every few moments. Malfoy had sort of mislead Hermione in his letter, about the changing of his hair colour. His hair was
normally a rather conspicuous part of him, but if her said that it wasn't his real hair colour… Surely she wouldn't figure it out. As he stood waiting in his nook he looked around at the
scene unfolding. All of the tables had been removed from the room, and enormous orange and black pumpkins had taken their places around the edges. Straw covered large areas of
the floor, and there were enormous barrels filled with floating candy apples for bobbing. He had seen a couple of sixth-years attempting to bewitch the apples so that they bit people
unfortunate enough to go bobbing, and Longbottom had been of their first victims. The students crowded the hall, their costumes a mass of colour and texture. There seemed to be
a fairly even split between muggle costumes and magical costumes. There were dragon masks breathing fire, and costumes with swishing tails. There were several girls wearing
angel costumes with actual flapping wings and there were boys who had come in Chudley cannons costumes. There were also some half-bloods and muggle borns who had gotten
their parents to send them costumes in the mail. There were flamingos and lions, sheep and mermaids and dragons, and every colour in the rainbow milling about on the dance floor.
The music had not started yet and people were darting in between clusters of friends admiring each other's costumes. He was watching someone's frog-mask as it whipped out it's
tongue for effect when she entered. She was a vision in ethereal white, her costume that of a beautiful spirit. Her dress shone with a grace and delicacy that made the other
costumes seem to blur into the background. Or was it just the way she wore it? Layer upon layer of white tattered gossamer made up the skirt of the gown, and the bodice appeared
to be lined by moonstones. Over her heart there appeared to be a large patch of seeping red blood, and one of her white elbow-length gloves was stained red. Her white mask went
from side to side, looking for him. He stepped out of the shadows and walked regally towards her, his silvery-white costume an eerily perfect pair to her own. It was pure luck that
their costumes matched. Sort of. Malfoy had confunded a Gryffindor second year, who he had sent to find out what she was going to wear. Not that she needed ever know that. He
bowed to her, she curtsied and they linked arms. Everyone in the hall had fallen into an awestruck hush. The ghost pair glided forward and the crowds seemed to part, the way they
only do in books. They made it to the centre of the dance-floor, and as if on cue the music started up. Draco had been forced to take dancing lessons as part of his "pureblood"
education. He had hated every minute of it when he was younger, but now as he spun and lifted Hermione gracefully into the air like she was nothing more than a feather, he
silently thanked his eight-year-old tutor for the hours of waltzing mercilessly inflicted upon him. For the first thirty seconds of music, Hermione and Draco were the only ones
dancing. His silvery-white cape fanned out in the same manner as Hermione's dress as they spun. Everyone stood around, watching the two ethereal dancers in rapture. Then they
all seemed to stir at once and began their own dances. Draco could practically hear the minds of his peers all asking the same question; who on earth were they, and why on earth
were they there? He smirked under his mask. As the dance ended, Hermione rested her pale-haired head upon his shoulder and whispered, "Well, it's lovely to meet you, Writer…"
He swore that she could feel his heart skipping jerkily inside his chest.
The entire crowd applauded and professor Dumbledore stood up at the front of the hall, the toad-like Umbridge standing only a step behind him. He placed his wand to his throat.
"Thank you all for coming to this celebration of All Hallows Eve. As our first ever Halloween dance, I believe it is running remarkably well, and would like to thank the band for their
wonderful work, and all of the guests for their wonderful displays of physical finesse upon the dance floor. Also, I would like to thank our spectral couple for their enchanting opening
of the dance. I can safely say that I have never seen such grace and serenity on the floor of this hall, and to you two unknown students, I give my full respect." He winked at them,
and the crowd applauded again. Draco was convinced that Dumbledore somehow knew that it was him and Hermione behind the masks, and that his message was meant to mean
something more.
The students all applauded and the music started up again. Draco looked toward Hermione, who stared back into his eyes. He could tell she was trying to figure out who he was
through this crucial part of his face. It was lucky she didn't care to look at him very much in class.
"Shall we dance?" he asked her nervously, hoping that she wouldn't pick his voice. A smile spread across her uncovered lips.
"I would love to," she replied, and she laughed as he swept her off her feet and spun into the evening.
Hermione had been right in her physical prediction. The Writer was taller than her and lean, and what few facial features she could see were fine and handsome. His hair was white
blond like Malfoy's but she knew that it wasn't him because the colour was fake. The Writer had told her so in his letter. His eyes were grey, with streaks of icy blue through them.
His costume was exquisite; a gentleman's attire all in a spectral, cold white like her own, with a tattered gossamer cape over one shoulder. Also, as she had only dared to fancy in
daydreams, he was an excellent dancer, far better than anyone else in the hall. She knew that there were several pairs of eyes on them at any one time but she didn't care. They
danced for several songs, until Hermione was thoroughly exhausted, then they went and sat on a pumpkin in the corner. They talked and laughed and Hermione noted the kiss that
appeared in one corner of the Writer's mouth when he smiled. She could tell that he was being careful not to say which house he was in, and to not give anything away. But she
didn't mind, because she finally got to quiz him on everything she couldn't put into a letter, the trivial things like favorite foods and annoying teachers. She was surprised and pleased
with how easy it was to get along with him. When a slow dance struck up and the lights were dimmed the Writer took her hand gently and led her onto the floor. His arms embraced
her and she felt his warmth seeping into her skin. She lay her head upon his shoulder and closed her eyes. They turned slowly to the music and Hermione could smell him. The only
way to describe it was the smell of sunshine in Spring. Like the colour gold. When the dance ended, the Writer whispered in her ear.
"We ought to leave," he said, "I don't know about you, but it would be best if no one knew I was here with you." Hermione thought of his pureblood confessions, and remembered
with a tiny pang of guilt Ron. She nodded and the two dancers had left the hall as silently and swiftly as if they were the spirits like they were dressed.